A Study of 221B
by I am Mycroft Holmes
Summary: <html><head></head>A set of drabbles, all about Sherlock and John from John's perfect cup of tea to Sherlock's troubling past. What is the source of Sherlock's hidden angst and sadness? How do the detective and the doctor really feel about each other? All will be explained! Very short chapters to begin with, but there are more and longer ones to come. Alternates between the present and past.</html>
1. Understood

**A/N: Unfortunately, I don't own Sherlock...or BBC...or anything...EXCEPT for my storyline. That part is all me!**

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><p>They return from Scotland Yard. Sherlock shrugs off his long coat and scarf unconsciously, his mind already poised to solve this next problem. He can hear John speaking in the background, but it is just white noise, just noise that he quickly tunes out so that he may fully concentrate. And concentrate he does. He is so busy concentrating that he doesn't notice John's approach until John is immediately in front of him, grabbing his hands clasped in a thinking pose and pulling them down in one swift motion. Their eyes lock for a second, and then they evade each other's glances as John scolds. Sherlock shivers, but a strange feeling ripples across his skin. It is filled with warmth.<p>

Hypothesis: John has caused this feeling. Hmmm…needs more data.

John is saying something about how he, Sherlock, finds too much pleasure in these murders. If it were anyone else Sherlock would yell at them, but no…John is different. With John, he knows no one will call him a freak or laugh at him. And even though John objects to his enjoyment of (obsession with?) murders, he knows John won't push the subject. He understands.

And for that, John has Sherlock's eternal gratitude.


	2. Tormented

"Daddy!" cries the little boy. He is very young, probably no more than three, but he wears an expression much too serious and tormented for his age. His lip quivers, but he doesn't cry. He must be holding it back, struggling to seem older. Or wanting to look tough. No matter what it is, Martha feels bad for the toddler, as she watches from her lifeguard post only a few yards away. She sees an older boy hurry over to his brother, trying to calm him down. Martha guiltily overhears every word.

"C'mon, 'lock," he whispers. "Don't be a baby."

The little one says something about a sand castle, then immediately hushes when a grown man dressed impeccably in a suit and tie—_his father?_—approaches.

"I told you _specifically_ not to embarrass me, Sherlock," he barks, after taking one look at the sand castle his younger son has begun to build.

"And _you_, Mycroft," he says angrily. "What is wrong with you? Can't you control your brother?! The Swedish Minister just walked away from a deal after taking one look at him!"

"I'm sorry, father," the older boy replies. His eyes are lowered as he cowers. "You see, he wanted to build a castle, a lot," he pleads. "But then, he was scared of the tide. I tried—I tried to stop, but…I couldn't. Please forgive me!"

Martha watches, horrified, as the father keeps yelling, until the whole beach has stopped what they are doing to listen. He realizes this, and storms off, knowing his sons will follow. Martha waits until they are out of sight to let out a breath she hadn't known she was holding. Suddenly, someone waves a hand in her face.

"Mattie? Martha Hudson, is that you?" a high voice chirps. "I haven't seen you since our school days!"

"Oh, hi, Betty," Martha says, smiling. "Listen, can you cover me for a sec'? Thanks."

She leaves without waiting for a reply and walks along the sand, thinking.

_Sherlock and Mycroft,_ she murmurs. _Poor kids. Hmm…_


	3. Banned

John pushes the spoon around the mug. He takes a secret pleasure in getting into a real rhythm, stirring and stirring until he remembers himself and starts to drink, self-consciously. But this time, he keeps going, and tries to keep the metal spoon from hitting the sides of the mug with an irritating "clank," which it always did. Finally John holds the mug to his lips, and takes his first sip of tea—but nearly spits it out.

"Ugh," he grumbles. "No milk." He knows before he checks that the fridge will be empty of food and full of experiments, but he looks anyway before groaning in disgust.

"Sherlock! What have I said about body parts in the kitchen?!" he calls into the sitting room.

"What have _I_ told _you_ about my experiment specifications? Those fingers have to be kept at exactly 6°! Besides, where would you prefer me to put them? In your room? ...Actually, come to think of it, your closet _is_ fairly empty…"

"Forget it," is John's rapid reply. He definitely doesn't want Sherlock getting ideas. Then he glances at his watch and groans again.

"Dammit, I have to go to the hospital. Suppose it's too much to expect for you to get milk at Tesco in the next eight hours?"

John says this last sentence boredly, knowing there is virtually no chance of it happening. He grabs his mobile, and without waiting for an answer, closes the door and leaves for work.

It is 7:30 in the evening when John returns from Bart's. He puts down his things, yawns, and, on a whim, walks over to the fridge, looking for milk. His jaw drops. The entire refrigerator is filled with gallon jugs of milk. On one of the front cartons he finds a note:

_John—_

_I went to Tesco's, but the organization is appalling. It took me an hour to find the milk, and then the manager—well, the point is, he banned me from the store. But I got the milk. You're welcome._

_—Sherlock_

_p.s. All I asked him for was eyeballs! How is that too much to ask?_


	4. Reminded

"Have you got your trunk?" the housekeeper asked him, not looking at his face, but busily dusting fine china plates in the entry hall with a fluffy feather duster.

"Yes, ma'am," Sherlock replied.

"Your school books?" she inquired.

"Yes."

"Your scarf? It'll be cold ou—"

"That too!" Sherlock cried. Then he softened. "Goodbye," he whispered. The housekeeper gave him a quick hug and ushered him out the door where a black car was waiting. Sherlock stepped in, and then looked back out the dim window to the Holmes manor where his eighteen year-old brother was standing at the door. It just wasn't fair. Mycroft never went to boarding school!

Eventually the silhouette of the only home he had ever known disappeared, and the scenery outside Sherlock's window was painfully picturesque. The sunlight glistening on the fields of wildflowers, the reflection of the cloudless blue sky in the winding brook beside the road… it all reminded him of the country home he was leaving.

Sherlock opened the latch of his trunk and slipped a hand into the smallest pocket. He took out a photo of a woman wearing a petal pink dress. She seemed to speak to him, despite the frozen moment the image captured. _Have a good time, sweetie_, she said. _Everything will be fine_.

"Love you too, mum," Sherlock replied quietly, so that the driver couldn't hear. The driver would tell Father, who would not be pleased that his son had spoken of 'the woman.' Father had a new wife now.

"We're here," snarled Sherlock's driver, pointing through his window at a large stone building.

"Oh, great," Sherlock said to himself.

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><p><strong>So, do you like it...or not? Please review below and with your answer to that question andor give me suggestions for the next chapter. That one will be set in the present day. Thanks! -Myc**


	5. Realized

**A/N: I'm so sorry that it's been so long! I admit that I was at a complete loss for what to write next, but I present to you now... the next chapter! Set in the present day! It's quite a bit longer than usual, because I had an idea and had to keep going, and then couldn't bring myself to shorten and edit it. So here's the next chapter, in its full glory!**

**As usual, review please! Compliments are appreciated, criticisms are desperately needed (and expected)! I don't care what it is, as long as you review! :)**

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><p>Sherlock's long, lithe fingers flurry over the violin stings, a sonata rests in the making upon his stand. It's been a weary evening of drunkenness, deductions, and dancing at the 221B Christmas party, and only now ─ at 22:18 ─ is John pacing the flat, on patrol for the last specks of Christmas pudding (which, unfortunately, will nonetheless haunt him for the remainder of the holiday season). A long whine echoes from the violin and John jumps from where he has been bending down behind a lamp.<p>

"Jesus, Sherlock... you're going to give me a migraine."

Sherlock, pondering the seriousness of the comment, decides not to question further. Such inquisitive comments seemed to be frowned upon when conversing with The Flatmate, as a result of the 'Three Continents Watson' incident that had occurred a few months before. Sherlock blinks hard to be rid of that unpleasant memory. The silence isn't deafening, but unpleasantly loud. He breaks the void with a rough baritone murmur.

"Sorry, John."

John picks up his head and gazes at his friend, surprised.

"Oh, okay... err... you're welcome, Sherlock...?"

Sherlock begins a vigorous movement, feeling the sentiment approaching and trying to fend it off with purely left-brained material. _Accelerando... then a gradual crescendo.. and... done._ He stretches and gazes intently at the staff. _It wasn't that bad... but it needed work._

"So what are you writing that one for?" asked John, abandoning his hopeless cleaning job in favor of a warm drink and plopping himself on the sofa like a laborer after a long day's work ─ which, considering John's day of infinite cooking and cleaning for ten Christmas-party-goers ─ didn't seem too far off.

"Oh... I don't know. It's not like it's any of your business what I'm doing. But, so stubbornly, you insist on making it so. When you think I'm not watching, you stop what you're doing and listen. It's distracting, really. Why don't you just leave me alone so I can work in peace?!"

Sherlock instantly regrets his outburst, realizing the misfortune he has of a being a high-functioning sociopath: a lack of social skills. _I didn't mean that... it wasn't the right thing to do. It's just that John can't be allowed to find out about the secret. And of course, I can't spoil the surprise, after all the time I spent working on it... ugh! People are so complicated. This is why I never used to care about such things._

"Fine. Be that way. I'm going out for a pint with Greg and the rest. Don't expect me back anytime soon," John states simply. He starts to get up, slowly and with a plethora of sighing, reminiscent of the time the two first met at Bart's. He is as sad-looking and pathetic as he was then─ and two years older. Sherlock makes a split-second decision that is so unlike him his own brain is shocked to have come up with it.

"John─"

"Goodbye, Sherlock."

John turns away and heads toward the door, grabbing his hat and gloves with an imperceptible sigh. Then Sherlock stops him with two short words, then many more.

"John, wait. I'm sorry. I truly, truly am. For anything and everything I've done you wrong. And I want to make a confession, even though," (he falters) "I'm not really ready to share it with you." Sherlock gestures to the metal music stand, as tall and rigid as himself. "This, here, was meant to be your Christmas present. I know it's not much, and it's still not what I wanted it to be, but there it is. It's been awful not being able to tell you about it, and you thinking I didn't care, all these months. I never realized at first, besides that you and I were compatible, how good you are to me. I never mean all those things I say ─ the awful ones, you know, but they're so stuck into me that I couldn't stop saying them if I tried. And I do appreciate you. I do care, when I remember to. And I never did those things before, those sentimental things ─ but I know now it's all thanks to you. So I was giving you this violin piece, John Watson, because you're the one who showed me the light."

John stands in the doorway, frozen in place, his jaw dropped. There is silence for an instant as both minds process what has just happened. John takes a deep breath, dispersing the scent of fresh tea from his mouth that Sherlock can smell from meters away, and asks a quiet question.

"What were you going to call it, Sherlock?"

Sherlock responds immediately, but calm-sounding and reserved, despite his pent-up feelings making his throat seize up on its own account.

"My Soldier."

John's eyes slowly become a raging river of salty tears, filling his lids until a few strays escape to the floor.

"Sherlock," he manages. "I─"

"I'm sorry. So sorry, my John."

"I forgive you... When have I ever been able to say those words?"

John smiles weakly. There is a pause as they both look everywhere but each other. The candles Molly brought, the colorful Christmas tree lights Mrs. Hudson had provided for them, and the golden star shimmering above, scatter shadows throughout the room and provide just enough light to see by, but no more. Sherlock gazes out the window at the many Londoners carrying home packages for Christmas, all in two, or threes, or fours. _They look happy_, he thinks. _Peaceful_.

"John?" he asks.

"Yes?"

"Do you think we could be like that?" Sherlock asks, unsure. This is all new territory for him, and he knows it. _Please let me do this right_.

"The people out there?" says John. He appears by Sherlock's side suddenly, looking out the window along side him at the passersby in the street below.

"...I think so," Sherlock whispers. They turn to face one another. Sherlock waits for an answer, terrified of John, terrified of the conversation.

"Do you want to be?"

"I don't know what it's like. But with you maybe I could... but I don't know how."

John takes Sherlock's hand, holding it firmly yet tenderly.

"You're not alone, you know. All that stuff you said ─ I really appreciate it all," he says. And after a pause, John continues.

"I don't know if this is what you're trying to say, but I'll give it my best shot: I like you too."

Sherlock's mind blanks out ─ empties. He can't believe what has just been said, what John says that he feels. He is the epitome of sensory overdrive, a frenzy of relief and terror. He should be glad, he should be rejoicing. He wants to open the window latch and scream to all of London what has just been said. But he knows better and simply gazes at John, his own face wide-eyed and radiant, completely petrified with the unfamiliarity of the situation.

John faces him, and looking at each other for another moment; two inscrutable, conflicted minds forget everything they knew to be true. John and Sherlock lean up (in John's case) and down (in Sherlock's case) until their heads are in profile, angled exactly the same.

Their lips meet in a soft, uncertain kiss.


End file.
